


I Know You Are, But Who Am I?

by Schrodingers_Rufus



Category: Half-Life VR but the AI is Self-Aware - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Post-Canon, The Player Is Not Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27668954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schrodingers_Rufus/pseuds/Schrodingers_Rufus
Summary: Gordon expected this to be a simple visit to his (begrudgingly) favorite band of modded Half-Life AI. The Payday 2 VR casino's bar seems like a decent place to kick back. Nothing too strange, nothing too unpredictable.Self-awareness is a fickle thing, though.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 40





	I Know You Are, But Who Am I?

“So, uh, sleepin’?”

The question didn’t come with a context, not that much of anything Benrey said did. Gordon made a valiant effort not to throw back the shot of overpriced casino whiskey he’d ordered. They hadn’t started the day’s heist yet, though that “yet” implied more of a plan than Gordon really felt they had. For now, the only plan was to drink, take a load off, and maybe try their hands at the ( _obviously_ fucking rigged) slot machines. 

He hadn’t tried porting them to any other games yet. 

He wasn’t _afraid_ to try, he just--shut up, just _shut up_ . It was tougher than it sounded, and _restoring from a backup_ didn’t have quite the same appeal when you factored in questions of personhood or souls or whatever.   
  
The whiskey burned as it ran down his throat, even though he knew it wouldn’t accomplish much beyond blurring his in-game vision a bit. Haptic feedback--even now, with this cutting-edge rig that cost him three months’ salary--could only go so far.   
  
_“What?”_ He turned, squinting. He knew he was just playing into whatever bullshit Benrey had planned, but he couldn’t just leave it. He’d never been good at that. 

“When you go to bed, go uh...night…?”  
  
“When--that’s not a question, Benrey.”

“I’m getting there, just, just slow down.” He looked down, fidgeting with his empty glass. He hadn’t ordered anything, from what Gordon could tell, just the glass.   
  
“Yeah?”   
  
“Shh.” Benrey hissed, a fine mist of blue Sweet Voice spitting through his teeth. 

Despite himself, Gordon fell quiet, gave him a couple seconds to get his thoughts together or stare at his glass or whatever he thought he was doing. 

“I think I, uh,” Benrey started, running a finger across the top of the glass. He didn’t look up. “Think I figured out why your passport’s bullshit.”  
  
“Didn’t seem _bullshit_ when destroying it killed you--”   
  
“Quiet? Please?” Benrey raised his eyebrows. “Thank you?”   
  
God, Gordon wanted to punch him. Instead, he grit his teeth, gestured vaguely in Benrey’s direction. _Yeah, go on?_

“So, when you, uh, sleep, things get... _you_ get...things get pretty fucked up.”   
  
This was not how Gordon saw his afternoon going. He ignored the faint prickle of sweat under the collar of his suit (under the collar of his ratty old t-shirt). “You, uh, you might wanna talk to Dr. Coomer about that.”   
  
“I don’t _wanna_ talk to Dr. Coomer about that. I wanna talk to you,” Benrey nearly whined. Immature little shit.   
  
“And I don’t--”   
  
Benrey cut him off. “Y’know, wanna make sure you’re not going anywhere, uh--” He looked up, made full eye contact. “-- **unauthorized**.”

Gordon sputtered. “We’re here to _rob the goddamn vault_ , Benrey,” he hissed, too low for the casino security AI’s simple voice recognition to pick up. “Everything _about_ this is unauthorized.”

“ **You know what I mean.** ” If Gordon didn’t know better, if he didn’t know everything Benrey said was some kind of generated text fed through a voice synthesizer, he would have sworn he just got closer to the mic. He could hear the audio clipping. 

Again, Benrey ran a finger across the top of the glass, and for a second Gordon thought he heard a high, clear tone.   
  
Benrey cocked his head and pulled in close, squinting. “I mean that’s not your face.”

Oh no. Nope, nope, nope. Not today. _Play dumb._ “What--what do you mean, that’s _not my face_?”   
  
“I mean,” Benrey drawled, “You’re wearing it, but it’s not _yours._ ”

“Well, then, whose is it, huh?” Shit, he’s giving it away, he _knows_ he’s giving it away. Gordon hears his voice climb higher, obviously nervous, obviously _guilty._

“Gordon Freeman’s.” Again, that little quirk of the head, the raised eyebrows, the tiniest ghost of a smirk. “Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you for some valid ID.”  
  
“No-you’re- _fucking_ -not!” Gordon yanked himself back, toppling off the barstool, stumbling back into--

“Are--are you feeling alright, Doctor Freeman?”

\--into Tommy. God. Okay. Great, let’s involve Tommy. 

Gordon could feel something cold and wet soaking into his sleeve--the drink. Tommy’s drink, some tall, colorful bullshit that Gordon just crashed into and spilled all over his jacket. Great. Today’s going just _great._

“Yeah, I’m fine, Tommy, sorry about your--”  
  
Benrey cut him off again, bass-boosted drawl steamrolling over the rest of his apologies. “He’s got an invalid ID. Picture doesn’t match. Name doesn’t match.”   
  
Gordon squared his posture, pointedly facing _away_ from Benrey. “Ignore him, Tommy, just ignore him.”   
  
The hesitant lilt in Tommy’s voice indicated that he was very much _not_ ignoring Benrey. “It’s not good to use a fake ID, Doctor Freeman! Are you below the, the legal drinking age?”

“NO!” Gordon yanked at his hair (at the controllers). “I’m an adult! I’m over twenty-one-- _I’m an adult!_ ”

“Don’t sound like it,” Benrey muttered.   
  
Gordon whipped around to face him, trying for a witty retort. One didn’t come. “ _Shut._ ”   
  
Benrey did not _shut_ , up or otherwise. Instead, he looked over Gordon’s head at Tommy. “He’s committing identity theft.”

“Oh _no,_ Doctor Freeman!” Tommy cried, eyes wide. Goddammit. God _dammit._ “Whose identity are you stealing?”   
  
“I’m not--”   
  
Benrey smacked his lips. “Gordon Freeman’s.”   
  
A heavy silence fell across the group, punctuated only by a distant cry of frustration (Bubby) and the heavy crunch of a slot machine being crushed (Coomer).

Tommy tilted his head down and, with a rattling slurp, sipped the last dregs of his cocktail through a silly straw. “Oh.”  
  
Gordon exploded. “What do you mean, _‘Oh’?_ "

“Well, I mean, I mean--” Tommy stammered, fidgeting with the straw. “You haven’t been Doctor Freeman for a while, Doctor Freeman.”

Gordon took a deep breath while his entire understanding of the universe rearranged itself. 

He held this breath. 

\--And sat down hard on the grubby casino carpet, black spots dancing in front of his eyes. 

A voice filtered through the haze. “Still gonna have to ask you for your ID, though.”


End file.
